


Layover

by narsus



Category: Cabin Pressure, Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M, Necrophilia, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:36:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MJN: An airline staffed by, and dedicated to, the transport of vampires and vampire goods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Layover

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Cabin Pressure belongs to John Finnemore and BBC Radio 4. Vampire: the Masquerade belongs to White Wolf Publishing.
> 
> Containing a hint of a crossover with [Pageantry](http://archiveofourown.org/works/205805).

“Mytherceria.”  
“Blood Angel.”  
“Really?”  
“You said traditions that you don’t see often. Are you going to tell me that you’ve _seen_ that performed?”  
“God no.”  
“Well then.”

The game peters off after that, Douglas being quite happy not to dwell on that particular reminder that Martin is, if only nominally, antitribu. No true Camarilla vampire is ever likely to mention the supposedly artistry of peeling open a victim’s ribs, so that they eventually drowned in their own blood, quite so casually.

“Anyway, you said Mytherceria. I don’t know any non-Sabbat Kiasyd. Do you?”  
“Can’t say I do. Not that I know any Kiasyd at all. Does sir perhaps have some hitherto unmentioned- Ah, that look would suggest-“  
“Oh, shut up, Douglas.”  
“Or?”  
“Or I’ll tell Arthur that I think your skin would make the perfect canvas for some finger-painting!”  
“Arthur?”  
“Yes.”  
“Martin, I’m not sure that’s quite how the Curse of Cain works for them.”  
“Not for the Camarilla Toreador, no.”

Coming from any other Lasombra it would be a threat, but Douglas catches the smile that tugs at Martin’s lips, and grins in return. They make an odd pair and certainly the banter between them would constitute outright hostility coming from anything else, but, somehow, it works. Martin does know a little too much about the inner workings of things like the Black Hand, for him to be quite as innocent as he pretends, but then Douglas is a little too familiar with the method to Ventrue antitribu madness to really cast aspersions on anyone else.

Just like mortals, vampires often require transport across the seas, and air travel is the fastest method available. MJN is the very height of undead luxury. An airline staffed by, and dedicated to, the transport of vampires and vampire goods. They’ll transport anything, for the right price. GERTI is an expensive beast, fitted with polarised plexiglass windows and complete blackout shades. Except, whatever the amount that Carolyn spent on the altered fittings, it’s probably quite easily recouped by the lack of heating, or at least heating of a human temperature, required on the average flight. As long as they’re not freezing to anything and the instruments still work, Martin has even expressed a preference for the lowest temperatures possible. Douglas, on the other hand, complains that it’s unseemly if it’s so cold that his drinks need to be microwaved twice as long to get them up to body temperature.

“What is it with you and cold blood anyway?”  
“Oh, come on, Douglas. You don’t believe that rubbish about being harmed by the blood of the dead, do you?”  
“No, well, not really.”  
“Builds character anyway.”  
“What does?”  
“Having to scrape open a vein with your teeth.”  
“Do tell, Captain Crieff, sir, what was it you did exactly in your last employment? You weren’t perhaps involved with that, sect with a sect as they call it, the Manus Nigrum, perhaps?”  
“You know, you’re the only person who still- well, there’s also…”  
“Also? Who else does sir know who refers to the H-“  
“Shut up, Douglas! Just, be quiet, will you?”

Douglas settles down readily enough. Martin’s outburst is enough to confirm his suspicions for the millionth time but that still begs the question of just what Martin was, or perhaps still is, to the Hand. And what the Hand would want with a highly strung Lasombra who seems to have no ambitions beyond dabbling in mortal aviation.

“Flying low over the perilous Carpathians there, Martin? Are we perhaps dicing with Final Death this morning?”  
“We’re landing, Douglas.”  
“What?”  
“You didn’t look at the flight plan, did you? The layover’s here.”  
“ _Here_? Martin, I know you have a certain devil may care attitude when it comes to-”  
“Rules of hospitality, Douglas. We’ll be safe for the day.”  
“You can’t just land on some boyar’s… land and expect them to take us in.”  
“The boierești -”  
“The what?”  
“Boierești: plural of boier. Why don’t you know that?”  
“Martin, I say this in all honesty, but I am truly starting to worry that I’ve had you pegged entirely wrong this whole time. After all, it’s all there. The viciousness, the overreaction to petty slights, the casual dismissal in things that would make most vampires want to put out their own eyes. I mean, come on! Those _hands_ , those, elegant, and strangely appealing I might add, long fingers. That’s got to be the work of Vicissitude gone mad.”  
“What do- did you just-“  
“Yes, yes, I did. It would be remise of me not to mention that you have such lovely, long, fingers. I’m sure they’d look beautiful wrapped around my-“  
“Douglas!”

The perilous Carpathians turn out to be somewhat less perilous, beyond a mountain landing strip that even Douglas has trouble picking out from any other unremarkable patch of earth, and a welcome party that seems to consist of two ghouls and a bored looking szlachta that booms a loud, unexpected, greeting that causes Martin to fall over in surprise. Hospitality comes in the form of a short, blond, vampire wearing shockingly normal clothes, who doesn’t sound even slightly Romanian.

“That time of year again?”  
“Well, we were just passing by and…”  
“Say no more. Just a touch-up I think.”

Douglas watches curiously as the blond peers into Martin’s face, and then proceeds to move Martin’s head about, apparently inspecting the angles of his features.

“He’s a surgeon.” Martin manages, out of the side of his mouth, still being inspected.  
“Does Carolyn know about your little maxillofacial detour?”

Martin ignores him. Of course they can’t make the full trip round comfortably, flying towards the sunrise anyway. This particular flight was a last-minute affair to transport some goods to Istanbul so the client was no doubt offered the option of a longer transport time or the extortionate fees MJA charge to pilot a craft in the sunlight. The modifications to the plane may protect anyone inside but many vampires, below a certain age, have a tendency to immediately fall unconscious at the approach of daylight. Douglas is old enough that the sunlight only annoys him, so long as he’s protected from it’s devastating power, and Martin, a man with little history, and, apparently, a Tzimisce plastic surgeon, doesn’t seem to be bothered by it at all. It’s enough to make Douglas wonder about Martin’s pedigree all over again.

Douglas is left to his own devices, with a decanter of vintage vitae, in a rather well appointed room that looks like it’s been lifted from the middle ages. In fact, their refuge consists of a fortress that seems to be welded onto the cliff face. Douglas tries not to make any associations about that particular habitat. All this, the trappings of ancient grandeur, make him feel a little out of place. He’s left his own past behind, in Cyprus to be precise, and to hell with what anyone thinks of his morals now. It makes him feel old, and not in a good way, when he thinks about it. About all the stupid loss and bloodshed, the nonsense talk of life eternal, once duty was done, the false promise of reunion with his daughter in the afterlife. Thank goodness he’d never believed it or they’d never have met again. His daughter, devout child that she once was, survived the sacking of her monastery to become a Cappadocian, and, though he doesn’t quite understand her fascination with the arcane mysteries of the grave, he’s glad that she still exists, lives after a fashion, to pursue them.

“Ah, Martin, you’re looking lovelier than earlier.”  
“Really? You- oh, of course you don’t think so.”  
“But I do. Why I thought just this evening that what would improve your fine looks immeasurably was a little stretching of the-“  
“Stop it. Are you drinking that?”  
“This? No, haven’t made a start yet. Would you like some? I’m sure someone so well acquainted with our host could-“  
“Could what?”  
“Could avail himself of something a little… warmer.”  
“What is it with you and warm blood?”

Martin snatches the decanter off the table and swigs directly from the bottle. Douglas expects him to put it down after a mouthful or two but, surprisingly, Martin seems set to down the entire contents.

“Well?”  
“Well?”  
“I’ve drunk all of it.”  
“So I see.”  
“You did say you wanted something warm.”

This is the point at which Douglas knows, by all sense and reason, he should bat away the suggestion in some effortless verbal volley, but that would mean pretending that he didn’t want what Martin is so very obviously offering. There are reasons why vampires don’t drink from others of their kind, mostly to do with all manner of strange bonds that the blood causes between them. Drink once from another vampire and you find yourself inexplicably drawn to them. Drink twice and you find yourself trusting them. Three times and you are nothing but their slave. Douglas has seen, first hand, the havoc that a blood bond can wreak on a thrall, has seen how Lasombra and Tzimisce alike use such things to further their own ends, ruthlessly.

“Douglas?”  
“Just a warning, Martin. If we do this I’m going to want you naked, with my cock up your arse, within the next half hour.”

 

Douglas wakes that evening, tangled in the bedsheets, curled around Martin, cock buried quite satisfyingly in his captain’s cold backside. Of course mortal sex simply isn’t something that means much of anything anymore, and certainly, Douglas isn’t going to waste the energy trying to simulate it, but he still rather enjoys the _idea_ of it, at least with Martin. To Douglas’ mind it has some significance even if last night has already answered one or two questions. Douglas, like most Ventrue, is subject to a certain fussiness of taste when it comes to vitae. Some Ventrue can only drink the blood of their descendants, some only the blood of mortals who meet a certain aesthetic, some only the blood of a certain profession. In Douglas’ case, he’s just verified that Martin died a virgin.

“I know your weakness.”  
“Do you now?”

Martin laughs softly and squirms against Douglas, not at all trying to get free. It makes Douglas want to sink his teeth into Martin’s pale skin again, to push his legs apart and bite down hard on the femoral artery, making Martin squeal in surprise and delight.

“And what, pray tell, are you going to do about my predilection for virgins?”  
“Make sure it stays satisfied.”

Douglas hadn’t expected the surety of that answer. In fact, he’s not at all certain that he’s ever expected Martin to take the lead at all.

“Are you always this forward, and I’ve just been oblivious, or is it just because we’re in Sabbat territory and you could have me strung up from the battlements otherwise?”  
“Because going to bed with a Crusader is just the thing to advance my position.”

It takes Douglas a moment to realise that Martin is using the Sabbat nickname for the Ventrue antitribu rather than naming Douglas’ past outright. Reason suggests that Douglas ought to pursue this avenue of logic further because Martin is certainly after something , some objective aim, that doesn’t involve having Douglas blood bound to him. He should figure all this out before the game is up and he’s running from Infernalists again but, instead, he shifts his hips, pressing harder into Martin and sinks his teeth into a bare shoulder.

“You didn’t… ah… ask… what position.”

Martin gasps, even as Douglas withdraws stained fangs and lifeless cock from his body.

“No.”  
“Don’t you want to know?”

Douglas lies back and Martin pulls himself on top of the other man.

“Go on then.”

Martin’s grin is vicious, even as he throws his head back, exposing his throat temptingly.

“Inquisitor.”

God does indeed move in mysterious ways so as to cater to the whims of at least one former Crusader. Douglas reflects on that fact in the scant few seconds it takes for Martin to straddle his face, and present him with that stretch of skin, that as quickly becoming Douglas’ favourite part of Martin’s body.


End file.
